34
Councillor Emerlyn stood beside one of the stone pillars in the Temple to observe the Black Mage’s farewell ritual.
Morgana was uncomfortably aware of her presence and of her judgment.
The gathering in the residence, with Emerlyn and Niamh sitting opposite each other in the dining room, had not been convivial.
Emerlyn spoke little. She took in everything—the residence, the dining room, even the refreshments laid out by Dafne—with an icy dark gaze.
Had Morgana not felt responsible for bringing Emerlyn to the Isle, watching her elder priestess bristle with resentment at the unspoken criticism might have made her chuckle.
The two were as different as chalk and cheese, and it was a relief when the brief discussion of the coming ceremony concluded and they could excuse themselves.
It startled Morgana, once the ceremony had started, to realize how much she cared about Emerlyn’s reaction to the Temple, to the chanting of the acolytes, to the collected power of the Nine in their high-backed chairs, to the muted swirl of magic in the air, so different from the rushing torrents of it in the White City.
Morgana preferred the gentle strength of the magic on the Isle.
Most of it was her own, of course, and Emerlyn was probably aware of that.
But there were others with magic, Olfreth with her talent for patterns, Niamh, who scried quite well, and who worked what might very well be called magic with the garden and the orchard.
Other priestesses had their own talents with salves and potions, even charms. Morgana had learned to appreciate and depend upon them all, and she had absolute faith that not one of them would use their magic to hurt anyone.
Emerlyn could not say the same for the denizens of her city.
Braithe stood at Morgana’s shoulder as she led the simple ceremony.
The carved lid of the coffin was closed now, but Morgana was painfully aware of the Blackbird sleeping the long sleep within it.
At moments when her grief brought twinges to her heart, she felt Braithe’s light hand on her back, which greatly eased her misery.
The acolyte mistress led her charges in a dozen or so stanzas. The choices seemed random to Morgana, but the high-pitched chanting of the acolytes was sweet and clear and charming. The stanza she liked best was the last, and she had no need to ask Braithe to interpret it for her.
The ship that slips beyond the horizon
Is still in the world.
As the procession followed the coffin out of the Temple and down the slope toward the lake, Morgana found Emerlyn at her elbow.
She didn’t speak, but Morgana was pleased she had joined her.
The gesture felt like one of approval. Emerlyn’s servants loaded the coffin onto the boat they had arrived in, and Morgana and Emerlyn climbed in after them.
Braithe stood on the shore with the acolytes, and the Nine made a dark semicircle behind them, watching and waiting in silence.
The boat pierced the circle of mist, and the oarsmen watched Morgana for a sign they had reached the place she wanted.
She held her sigil in her hand, and when the boat was completely swallowed by the fog, birdsong and animal noises muffled and far away, she nodded.
“Here,” she said. Her voice was also nearly lost, dampened by the mist.
Emerlyn’s servants lowered the coffin into the water with barely a splash.
It sank slowly and steadily, the bottom dipping down into the water, then the sides, until finally the elegantly carved lid submerged, fading bit by bit beneath the surface.
No rising bubbles marked the coffin’s passing.
There was only the slightest disturbance of the water, faint, transparent ripples that fanned out and dissipated into the lake.
Morgana murmured, “Farewell, dearest sir.” No one heard her except the Blackbird.
Braithe watched from the garden bench as Morgana and Emerlyn said their farewell.
They stood facing each other, not touching, but looking into one another’s eyes.
Morgana kept her hands tucked in her sleeves.
Emerlyn’s were folded together in front of her lean waist. Her loose hair glinted with streaks of silver in the afternoon sun.
Morgana’s, which Braithe had insisted on braiding, was a silver crown upon her head, with three artful strands trailing over her shoulder.
When the oarsmen and the servants were ready, Emerlyn spoke to Morgana one more time, then made her way stiffly down the dock to the boat.
Morgana stayed where she was, her hand lifted, as the boat carried her grandmother away.
When it disappeared into the mist, she dropped her hand and turned to climb up the slope to Braithe.
“What did she say?” Braithe asked.
Morgana’s eyes were very gold, alight from within. She didn’t smile, but her mouth was relaxed, and although they had both sat with the Blackbird all night, not sleeping at all, she looked well, despite her sadness. “She asked to be invited back to the Isle,” Morgana said.
“Very good. That means she wants to know us better.”
“Yes. I feared she and Niamh would clash, but I believe Emerlyn sees Niamh as the strong woman she is.”
They turned together to walk up to the Temple. “I wonder what Priestess Niamh thinks,” Braithe said.
Morgana sighed. “She will say little about it, but I hope, in time, she will understand the pressure Emerlyn is under, the hopeless task she has. That forms her, as it would anyone.”
“Priestess Niamh could say that the pressure she herself is under has formed her for the better,” Braithe said.
“She would be correct. But Emerlyn has to overcome a lifetime of prejudice.”
“Let us hope she has time. She is far from young.”
“True. Which brings me to one thing she told me, and which I need to pass on to you.”
Braithe nearly missed a step. “What—what could that be?”
“Do not look worried, Braithe,” Morgana said, and now she did give one of her rare smiles.
They were always beautiful to see. She never showed her teeth, but her lips curved gracefully upward, and her eyes glimmered.
“Emerlyn was aware that your time in the White City brought your magic to its full bloom.” They had reached the entrance to the Temple, but Morgana paused to finish her thought.
“She said your magic will make your life long and full, brat. Perhaps not as long as one of the fae, but longer than you might have expected otherwise.” She took Braithe’s hand and pressed it with her fingers.
“I wonder if you can imagine how happy that makes me. For you, but also, very much, for me.”
“Priestess, I…” Braithe stammered. She was as moved by Morgana’s feelings as she was by what was probably good news, although she would have to ponder it.
“I think you should call me Morgana, don’t you, brat?” Morgana said. “You are going to be advisor to the king. You have earned your own position, through your own merit, a worthy achievement.”
“They keep calling me priestess.”
“They are your people now. They should call you what they choose.”
Braithe, unlike Morgana, had always been quick to tears, and now they fell freely over her cheeks. Morgana said, “I do hope those are tears of joy.”
Braithe nodded, smiling, and returned the pressure of Morgana’s hand.
Morgana chuckled as she released her, and the two of them went on through the Temple toward the residence, to lay their plans for the trip to Camulod.
Idhri, waiting on the dock, spotted Braithe on the path from the residence and trotted up to relieve her of the bags and baskets she was trying to carry. “You didn’t have so much with you on the trip from home,” he said, filling his arms with as much as they could hold.
“Priestess Morgana is coming with us to Camulod.”
“To stay?”
“For a little while. She is so sad about the Blackbird. I persuaded her to come for a visit, to rest a bit.”
“Good idea,” Idhri said. They made their way past the acolytes’ dormitory and on down toward the garden. “I saw that Councillor Emerlyn was here.”
“Not your favorite person, I think,” Braithe said lightly.
“More like I am not hers.”
“She may change,” Braithe said. “I am learning that people do.”
“That’s a change that’s overdue.” Idhri knew he sounded bitter, but the councillor’s dismissal of him as a half-blood still stung.
He wished he could put all that behind him, but there were so many people like him still in the White City, and they didn’t have the option.
He blew out a breath and changed the subject.
His right hand began to hurt, and he shifted one of the heavier baskets to his left. “Are you moving rocks to the castle?”
Braithe laughed. “No, but I am bringing all my things. I will be staying at Camulod.”
Idhri gave her a startled look. “Truly?”
“The king has requested it.”
They walked a few more steps while Idhri thought about this. As they reached the slope down to the dock, he said, “Are you pleased, Braithe, or do you wish you could come back to the Isle?”
She glanced up at him, and her eyes were very blue in the late-summer sun.
“Both, Idhri. I am pleased, because I have found important work to do. I also wish I could come back to the Temple, to be Priestess Morgana’s handmaid again.
” She gave a little shrug. “I thought I would always be a handmaid, but now I am—well, I have no word for what I am.”
“Now you are Priestess Braithe,” Idhri said, and grinned. “And Camulod will be glad to have you.” And so will I. Braithe’s lips twitched, and he knew she heard his thought.
They reached the dock, where Master Hugh was readying the boat for the trip. When he saw them, he took off his cap, saying, “Good morning, Priestess Braithe.”
Idhri pressed his lips together to keep from laughing as Braithe shot him a vivid blue glance. She said in composed fashion, “Good morning to you, Master Hugh.”
Three black-robed figures appeared at the top of the slope, almost invisible in the glare of the sun.
One was Priestess Morgana, her shining silver hair unmistakable.
Another, Idhri thought, squinting up at them, was that old priestess, the one whose hands were always dirty.
He didn’t recognize the third. She hung back while the old priestess walked with Priestess Morgana down to the dock.
Idhri took the basket from Priestess Morgana’s hands and stowed it in the boat. Master Hugh said, “We’re ready when they are, lad.”
“Aye.” Idhri held out his hand to help Braithe into the boat. When she was comfortably seated, he began to unwind the mooring rope from the bollard, putting him in perfect position to overhear the two priestesses’ conversation.
The old priestess, whose name Idhri recalled was Niamh, said, “There’s no need to feel guilty about this, Morgana.”
“Except I have been away so much this summer.”
“Your last absence was hardly pleasurable.”
“True.”
“And your handmaid is correct. You need rest. Let her indulge you for a bit, especially since she is not returning with you.”
“I will be back soon.”
“Of course. Give the young king the regards of all of us here on the Isle.”
“I will do that.”
“And Morgana—” There was a little pause, and Idhri slowed his work with the rope, wanting to hear the end.
He took a furtive glance at the two women and saw that the old priestess had put her hand on Priestess Morgana’s arm.
“I know now what I have often suspected. Seeing you with Councillor Emerlyn erased my doubts.”
Morgana stood very still. “You guessed I was fae,” she murmured.
“Yes. And now I’m sure.”
“Priestess Niamh—do you mind?”
Niamh made a pffft noise and chuckled. “We are all the beneficiaries of your magic, Morgana. And unlike too many of the fae, you wield it with discipline and compassion. Not only do I not mind, I’m grateful.”
“I would prefer to keep it secret.”
“Of course, for now. You may change your mind.”
“Perhaps.”
Idhri dropped his gaze swiftly as Morgana turned toward the dock.
She strode forward, and he stood up to help her into the boat, which she allowed him to do this time.
Her seat next to Braithe was ready, but she didn’t take it.
She moved to the prow and stood there, a slender, black-robed figure, her silver hair catching the light.
Braithe, looking up from her place on the bench seat, smiled. “I believe we are ready, Idhri. Master Hugh.”
Idhri pulled up the coil of rope, and his master took up the oars.
With Priestess Morgana braced against the hull, looking forward, they slid away from the dock and out toward the circle of mist. Idhri glanced back once to see Niamh, her hands tucked into her sleeves, watching them go with an impassive expression.
He lifted one hand in farewell, and she inclined her head to him as if he were a person of consequence.
If the elder priestess didn’t mind that Morgana was fae, perhaps she wouldn’t mind that he was a half-blood. Idhri felt the last of his anxieties slipping away as they floated into the cool gray fog of Ilyn and turned toward home.